Ah, the restaurateur. The well-known restaurateur. The one with the TV show. And the wife, who's all over the restaurants (which really are worth the fuss - I'm a good customer) and the TV show. Watching him, you can't but conclude he likes boys - his manner is unmistakably sodomite. Indeed, there's vigorous debate on the interwebs as to whether he likes boys. And I have the answer. He does.
The restaurateur goes to my gym, occasionally. One of those occasions happened to be a dreary Sunday afternoon late this fall - or maybe early this winter - somewhere in there. The restaurateur was heading into the gym just ahead of me, close enough that I was able to spend a few moments mulling over 'which way does he go, anyway?' Frankly, I can't look at him, be it on TV, on the street or in his one of his restaurants, without mulling that important question. Little did I imagine today was the day I'd get a rock solid answer.
In the locker room, he undressed and appeared to head straight for the shower/steam/sauna. A good sign. Nice slim, athletic bod - particularly for a guy in the food business. Nice I suited up and headed for the weights. Call me virtuous (or, read some more of this blog and see if you can still say that with a straight face). Half an hour or so later, it was my time to shower/steam/sauna. The place was fairly empty, it being a dreary Sunday afternoon. I settled into the sauna, where I chatted with Mr. Taste Free for a few minutes (he and I now chat in a familiar way that pretty much rules out any more anonymous blo-jobs). Then I made for the steam and was surprised and delighted to see the restaurateur passing by toward the showers looking well heated and sweaty. Maybe he eyed me. 'Ha, spending a lot of time in the company of other sweating naked men, Mr. Restaurateur? Got ya!' I thought to myself. In my mind, at that point, he was as busted as could be.
I settled into the steamroom with one other guy sitting by. A few minutes later, in walks the restaurateur. And he sits down next to me, to my left, but at a respectable distance. On his towel, not wrapped up in it. Wow! I switch on my full telepathic communication capability and start beaming the message "exit the steamroom, now!" at the third guy in the steamroom, while simultaneously beaming the message "the other guy will be out of here in two seconds" at the restaurateur. And sure enough, my telepathic systems were in good working order, as the third guy left pretty much on cue.
Then began a few moments of awkward mutual checking out, and the sending of self-groping signals. But progress was swift, with no unnecessary face-saving gestures of disinterest. He wanted it. He wanted it in a sad, guilty, but very passionate kind of way. He was the first to actually take hold of his cock and start stroking. He reached for me before I reached for him. And he reached first not for my cock, but for my right nipple, which he wanted to stroke. I responded in kind, with my tongue on his nipple (safe bet he was a nipple guy) and moved on to the side of his neck. And he responded with a happy shudder, and began groping my cock as I reached for his. This was a lot of body contact, and a lot of passion for steamroom sex. My right hand (by this time I was completely turned toward him on the bench) found his cock - long, skinny, with short trimmed pubes - and stroked gently. He was clearly enjoying himself hugely.
I whispered in his ear, an inch away: "do you want a blo?" to which he responded with a quiet, husky sound that I took for a 'yes'. I bent down, and took one long slow gentle stroke. We were suddenly interrupted by the door opening. "It's OK, don't stop for me." Mr. Taste Free! Very considerate, thank you, pal. I went down on the restaurateur again, and he lasted but about three more strokes before urging me off his cock. Two pumps of his own hand and he spewed - good distance and quantity for a middle-aged guy, I might say. I went back to nuzzling his neck as he caught his breath.
He gave me a long look, with actual eye contact, that was tinged with what I think was sadness. Or maybe straight out guilt. And then he was out of there. When he was safely out the door, Mr. Taste Free asked me, with his charming Spanish accent: "you do know who that was?" I played dumb.